


No More

by charmtion



Series: Querencia [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College, Dom Jon Snow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Professor Snow's Magic Tongue, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 19:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20822477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: “No more, you said when you barged your way into my office this morning.” His voice is dangerously soft: a sound to match the touch he trails across the backs of her thighs. “Slammed my door. Pounded my desk. Pulled my hair. Called me by my Christian name.” Slips his hand between her legs as she begins to mewl. “You have beenterriblyrude today, Miss Stark… wouldn’t you agree?”Sansa didnotintend for her meeting with Professor Snow to gothisway. Honestly.





	No More

**Author's Note:**

> I, umm… I’m just gonna leave this right here.

_No more_. Sansa said it a thousand times this morning, stared hard-eyed at the mirror, watched her lips shaping the same words, over and over.

_No more. No more. No. More_.

But that was this morning and this — this is _now_.

Dim office, overhead light switched off, lamp swaying dangerously as she fumbles to grip at the edge of the desk. Smooth ironwood, slippery against her sweat-damp palm. Furrowed brow, eyes half-closed, lip caught between her teeth. Little window on the office door; shapes moving to and fro behind the frosted glass. Murmur of the corridors filling the air like a kicked beehive — matches the one buzzing in her belly, spiking liquid-hot honey down the valleys of her veins, blooming between her thighs.

Tips back her head, fights the moan tangling on her tongue. Shifts a little — splay-legged on the desk — spine arching as she whimpers at the ceiling.

_No more_, she said as much when she first walked in. Door slammed shut behind her. Leant her hands on the desk, bent forward, scarlet hair slipping over her shoulder. _No more_. Said it. Meant it. Really, truly meant it. But that was — and this is — and now — _oh fuck_. 

“I’m going to — ”

A rumble against her thigh. “What did I tell you?”

“But — ”

“Be quiet — or I’ll stop.”

Hoarse, the frustrated sound that slips from between her teeth. Feels the pinprick of a bite on her hipbone, the flat of a palm pushing down on her belly. Plush mouth back between her thighs: one long slow trip of tongue, a tight quick circle around her clit. Fingers inside her, then gliding out, spreading her open, holding her hostage to the flicks of that — _oh fucking fuck_ — skilled fucking tongue. Hips canting up, arse sliding on the slippery desk, skirt runching up round her waist, one hand gripping for dear life at the teetering lamp, one hand woven into the ink-dark curls that bob and weave as that — _oh-my-fucking-God-Jesus-and-all-the-angels_ — tongue curls around her clit, pulls it into a wet, warm mouth that kisses and sucks till her thighs are trembling and her vision is white-flecked.

“Jon.” Bursts out of her before she can bite it back. “Jon. _Jon_ — ”

“What did you just call me?”

“I — ”

“I won’t ask again.”

“Jon.” Rips from her throat in a gasp. “I called you Jon.” Whimpers as that wet, warm mouth drags along her thigh. “I’m sorry, Professor — ”

“Too late.” Palm lifts off her belly, taps the desk beside her hip. “Turn over. Now.”

Sansa tears her eyes from the ceiling, head rolling heavily on her neck as she levels with the dark, dangerous gaze he keeps on her. She watches as he begins to roll up his sleeves. Blinks stupidly, mesmerised by the white cotton sliding up the sun-browned flesh of his forearms, the flex of his wrist as he secures them at his elbows. Tie loosened at his throat, glasses tucked into his shirt-pocket; close-cropped beard damp around his mouth. He lifts a brow at her, face so serene it looks ice-carved, but there is the faintest flicker of impatience tightening his jaw, edging his dark grey eyes.

She swallows thickly. “I — ”

“Turn. Over.”

Cheek against the smooth ironwood desk now, hands stretched in front of her, gripping at its far edge, belly pressed to the papers and essays and files strewn across it. She gasps as he runs a fingertip down the curve of her back, trips it over every bone-notch, circles the base, runs it back and forth between her hipbones. His polished shoe slides between her feet, pushes her legs further apart.

“_No more_, you said when you barged your way into my office this morning.” His voice is dangerously soft: a sound to match the touch he trails across the backs of her thighs. “Slammed my door. Pounded my desk. Pulled my hair. Called me by my Christian name.” Slips his hand between her legs, glides his wet fingers up over the rise of her arse as she begins to mewl. “You have been _terribly_ rude today, Miss Stark… wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” she breathes, arching her back a little, shifting her hips as he kneads her soft flesh with his damp palms. “Mmm, _yes_.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Professor Snow.”

“That’s better.” Squeezes down, then fills his hands with her hips as he pulls her back against the bulge in his trousers. “_Much_ better, Miss Stark.” He bucks against her as she grinds back on him; flexes his hands, taps his fingers against her skin, then pushes her forward again. “Mmm, better… but you _have_ been bad today, haven’t you?”

Her eyes roll a little, flicker behind half-closed lids as he sweeps a palm across her arse, flexes it gently against the pale, unmarked flesh. “Yes.” Her voice is a whisper streaking fire up her throat, slipping through the smile nipping at her lips. “_Fuck_ yes, Professor Snow.”

“Profanity.” The first smack stings, makes her shoot forward, desk’s edge cutting into her belly. “Backchat.” The second _rings_ like a thunder-clap; but she gasps and gushes as its aftershocks spread white-hot across her flesh. “Impertinence.” The third blow lands steady as the first two, ebbs up her spine, clouds her brain in its flame and spice and sweet, sweet heat. “Overfamiliarity.” The fourth finds her biting down on her forearm, muffled moan scorching all the air from her lungs; a tendril of its sound escapes as he sags back a little, smooths his palm across her flesh, soothes the sting pressing barbs beneath her skin. “Four should be sufficient… unless you want more, Miss Stark?”

“No more,” she breathes, closing her eyes to hear his dark, breathless chuckle at _those_ words. “Just… please just — ”

“Just what, Miss Stark?”

“Fuck me.” Hand sliding up her spine, tangling in her hair; jags a gentle threat at the roughness of her language, the smokiness of her voice. “Fuck me — _please_.”

“Please what?”

“Please, Professor Snow.”

She can feel the buttons of his shirt press against her back as he swoops low to land a bite on her shoulder. Turns toward him, desperate for his mouth, his tongue, his teeth on her lips, jaw, chin — but he’s up and away from her, hands busy at his belt, zipper groaning. Puts her brow back to the desk, fingers wrenching at the ironwood edge, thighs parting, pushing back, seeking him as he grips at her hips and slides inside her. Throws her head back now, rocks up onto her elbows, back arching till her spine aches and her ribs creak and her heart feels like it’s about to burst out of her fucking chest.

Wine-slow, the way he pulls back, settles on the very edges of her. Listens to her soft little protest, sucks a hard-fought breath between his teeth. Snaps back into her, cock stroking, stoking, _stretching_ her till he’s flush against her body, deep, so _deep_ — past pleasure, pain, pushing into pure surrender. Her hair wrapped like a rope around his hand; he pulls, her head jags back, eyes skyward, lips soft and teeth-marked by her struggle to control the sounds that fight to rip through them: moans, mewls, whimpers, whines, a thousand curses, none as colourful as the one bursting like wine on her tongue.

“More… mmm, _more_.”

“_No_ more?” he asks earnestly, hips stilling for half a heartbeat.

“No!” Nearly shouts it, rolls her head as his grip slackens on her hair, throws a look at him over her shoulder. “More. _Please_, more.”

Dim office, overhead light switched off, lamp tumbled over on the desk — still, he looks like a fucking god in the honeyed glow it casts. Smirking at her as their eyes meet, those snow-white teeth peeking through that coal-dark beard, crinkles at the edges of his warm grey eyes, inky curls artlessly rumpled around his beautiful smug face. Sun-browned forearms flexing as his fingers dig into her hips, white cotton shirt open at his neck, glimpses of the plump muscles heaving beneath, glasses tucked into the top pocket. He catches her staring at them, lifts a hand from her hip, slips the glasses from his pocket and — _oh-my-fucking-God-Jesus-and-all-the-angels_ — balances them halfway down his nose as if he’s peering at an essay she’s handed in late.

“More?” he says, smirk widening as she thumps her forehead back down on the desk, clenches hard around him and moans high and clear and hard as he starts to move again. “Only if you’re sure, Miss Stark.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> **#FeltCuteMightDeleteLater**
> 
> _update_: didn't delete did I; only went and wrote a bloody sequel... [Peace of Mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350539). Enjoy!


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